Two poppies and three arrows in pencil

The third bundle of ash shafts came down from the Pennick farm on Tuesday, and I have finished fletching the lot, though my fingers still smell of the glue. Father would have sent back the last six for the feathers, which he says should be plucked and matched like a good pair of gloves. I told him I learnt that from him, so he could hardly complain. He complained anyway, then sat by the window with his pipe and watched the orchard.

The poppies have come up between the apple rows where the grass was cut in June. Mrs Hollis calls them weeds and says they will spoil the windfalls, but nobody has the heart to pull them. They open at first light and by noon the petals are loose on the grass, so thin you can read the Gazette through them. Father tried to prove this with a torn page, and then he laughed, which I had not heard him do since March. I have pressed one between the pages of the almanac for you. By the time you read this it will be brown and papery, but it will still be the red you remember.

I have set aside the three best shafts, the ones with the dark grey feathers and the narrow points. Father says they will fly true for a man who does not flinch at the wind. Come home before the apples are picked. Bring the bow, and we will shoot at the old stump behind the cider house the way we did before you went.

I will keep the poppies pressed until you do.

Your sister, Annie